


Christmas on the Hotspur

by sanguinity



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Hotspur - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 00:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17151659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: Maria and Bush conspire to arrange a Christmas treat for Horatio.





	Christmas on the Hotspur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ColebaltBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColebaltBlue/gifts).



> For ColebaltBlue, who asked for something ~~silly~~ stupid and sweet for her stocking.

Christmas day dawned foul and dirty, but the blockade had held during the night: the dawn revealed no French ships that had taken advantage of the night's easterly to escape Brest Roads. Captain Hornblower gave the order to dismiss the ship from quarters, and Bush relayed it in his brass-lunged bellow. The bosun's answering whistle sounded nearly simultaneously with the marine ringing eight bells.

 _Hotspur_ had nearly been put to rights again when Hornblower ordered the ship put about on the other tack; Mr Poole, the officer of the watch, executed the order with his usual efficiency, and Mr Prowse noted the new course on the board. "Send the hands to breakfast when you please, Mr. Bush," Hornblower shouted over the wind, and Bush sent them there and then: it would be a wet and exhausting day for the hands, and they would work better with bellies full of breakfast, even if the breakfast was only cold parboiled pork.

"Merry Christmas, sir," Bush called over the wind, and had the satisfaction of seeing Hornblower start. Last year, too, Hornblower had forgotten the significance of the date in his preoccupation over his duties in the Goulet. Bush smiled to himself, feeling a queer sort of affection for this man who was so foresightful a leader, but who could forget so common a thing.

But Hornblower was not a man to be taken aback for long. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Bush," he answered, his shoulder close to Bush's, the better to be heard.

"Not much of a Christmas dinner today, sir." The galley fire had been extinguished during the second dog-watch; there would be nothing but cold food today, although the gunroom could manage somewhat better than hardtack and cold pork. "But the goose will keep until this blows out."

"I imagine it will," Hornblower said civilly.

"The gunroom hoped you would honour us as our guest when we eat it, sir."

Hornblower's answering smile was a peculiar mix of shy pleasure and rueful distress. Bush guessed that Hornblower was seasick again, with no stomach to speak of Christmas geese. It never failed to surprise Bush that such a good seaman could be such a poor sailor, but there it was. 

"It would be my pleasure," Hornblower said nonetheless. He lurched as the _Hotspur_ gave a particularly devilish leap and twist under their feet. Definitely seasick, Bush noted, and he suppressed his smile. 

"Notify me when she needs to go about again," Hornblower said, and with self-conscious dignity, he retreated to his cabin, abandoning the quarterdeck to his lieutenant.

 

As gales went, this one was easier than most, blowing hard from the east and leaving them plenty of searoom under their lee. Hornblower's orders kept the _Hotspur_ tacking as close as they could maintain to the mouth of the Goulet, lest the French fleet use the easterly to escape. Hornblower's colour seemed somewhat better at the end of the forenoon watch when he briefly came to the quarterdeck again, and so when Hornblower left the quarterdeck, Bush did too, although his own course continued below to the gunroom. There, in his tiny screened compartment, he dug a bulky, oil-skinned package from his seachest. Wrapping it well in his sea-cloak, he re-climbed the gangway to the deck and the captain's cabin, braving the weather as he crossed the exposed deck to the companionway. The sentry indicated Hornblower was alone, which was well.

"Come," Hornblower called in response to Bush's knock — more of a meaty pounding than a knock, necessary to be heard above the _Hotspur's_ groaning. Hornblower was seated at his desk, seemingly occupied with the neverending paperwork of a king's ship. His eyes narrowed when he saw Bush well-wetted from crossing the exposed deck, carrying his cloak instead of wearing it. "Well? What have you got there?"

Bush carefully unwrapped the parcel from his cloak; fortuitously, it was still dry. "From your good lady, sir," Bush said, and had the distinct pleasure of watching Hornblower goggle in surprise. 

"From my…? From _Maria?"_ Hornblower stood to inspect the proffered package. "How can this be? We've had no mail, nor ships to bring any."

"No, sir. Mrs Hornblower sent this aboard before we sailed. Asked me to keep it safe for her and to deliver it to you on Christmas day." Three weeks ago, that had been, when Mrs Hornblower had first sent a note to Bush, asking if he could arrange this for their captain. It had been no little effort making space for the bulky parcel in his sea-chest where it would be safe from light-fingered hands, but Bush had obliged. "Merry Christmas, sir."

Hornblower took the package from Bush's hands and weighed it; it was heavy for its size. Hornblower's smile was nearly embarrassed, and Bush experienced a rush of protective feeling toward this awkward young man he called his captain. "Thank you, Mr Bush," Hornblower managed. 

"My pleasure, sir. I'm due on deck to relieve Mr Poole, if you'll excuse me, sir." There was no need for him to stay and witness whatever a woman sent to her husband on Christmas day; it was enough for Bush to know that his captain was well-pleased.

"Of course, Mr Bush," Hornblower said, and Bush, settling his cloak around his shoulders, took his leave.

The weather continued to blow dirty through the length of the afternoon watch, and soon it did not matter that Bush had arrived for his watch already wet. The wind drove the rain and spray down between neck and collar, up past the hem of his cloak and in through its heavy fastenings. Yet he was warmed by the thought of Hornblower's disconcerted smile as he had weighed his parcel, and by the pleasure in surprising a man who was so seldom surprised.

Just after first bell, Mr Foreman approached Bush at the weather rail. "The captain's compliments, and will you come see him when you're off watch," Mr Foreman shouted into Bush's ear. Bush sent back his acknowledgement, and settled back into the business of the watch.

 

Eight bells saw him knocking on the captain's door again. "Come," Hornblower called. This time when Bush opened the door, he was greeted by the smell of pine and spice and oranges.

"Come, let me take that, sit," Hornblower urged, and Bush found himself in the bewildering and embarrassing position of his captain taking his sea-cloak from him. Hornblower permitted him no room to protest, however, and Bush was firmly guided into the tiny cabin's single chair. Hornblower seated himself on his hanging cot; there was something almost boyish in his grin. "I hoped you would join me for Christmas dinner, Bush," Hornblower said, dropping the formal _Mr_ of the quarterdeck.

"Dinner, sir?" Bush asked in confusion, for the galley fires had still not been lit. The opened parcel sat on the cot beside Hornblower; Bush could just see the neck of a spirits bottle, and the gleam of an orange. There was a sprig of greenery tacked onto the skylight coaming, accented with the bright red of holly berries.

 _Hotspur_ slid down a wave; their knees brushed. 

"Maria sent Christmas dinner, or as much as would keep. The mince pies would be better properly hot, I'm afraid, and perhaps should be saved back for the goose, but I hope you'll take one now. And join me in drinking a wassail to my wife."

Bush was getting his sea legs under him again. "Of course, sir," Bush said. "It would be my honour." Hornblower took up a bowl and poured from the spirits bottle; Bush took the bowl from his captain's hands. "To Mrs Hornblower," he said, and drank deep of the punch, rich with fruit and spice. "May she be having a merry Christmas, even if she must have it without you. She and master Horatio both."

"May they indeed," Hornblower returned, and taking the bowl back, he drank too, more gingerly than Bush had. "Have a pie, I've warmed this one a little on the lantern," he said, and putting the bowl aside, he bundled a small mince pie, just barely warm, into Bush's cold hands. But Bush hesitated when Hornblower made no move to take a pie for himself. 

"Don't mind me, I'm starting with the gingerbread," Hornblower said, and took up a gaily-decorated piece of the same. He nibbled delicately at it.

Hornblower was still queasy, then, with no stomach for meat pies. And yet he had invited Bush in to share in his Christmas dinner, one specially sent to him by his wife — or he had invited Bush to share as much of his dinner as he intended to take. Bush smiled, as much from the punch in his belly as from his affection for his captain.

"Merry Christmas, Bush," Hornblower said, his eyes alight with the delight of a surprise well-shared. 

"Merry Christmas, sir," Bush returned. "And may there be many more."


End file.
